


Grace

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solosundance (JoJo) asked for "Fallen Angel". You're going to have to squint a bit, possibly, but this is where my mind went!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/gifts).



> Written for the DiscoveredinaLJ 2015 challenge: Discovered in the Holly and Ivy.

They thought he didn’t know.

*****

Bodie pushed away from the wall when Doyle emerged from Cowley’s office. He fell into step beside him as they walked down the hallway.

“Thought you’d gone home,” Doyle said. He looked tired. Preston had been handed over to the police, the 180 was back in the Armoury. The triumph of survival was apparently ebbing.

“Taking you home, aren’t I?”

“My car’s here.” It was a protest, but there was an undertone in Doyle’s voice that told Bodie he wanted to be convinced.

“Yes, but you’ll complain about my choices if I get the food from the Indian place.”

“That’s true.”

“Good game on the box. A chance to unwind, eh? We both need it.” He knew he’d pushed it too far as soon as the last words left his mouth.

“I don’t need coddling!” Doyle stopped walking.

“Who said anything about you?”

Doyle just looked at him.

“Look, I’m starving, Ray.”

“I fed you this morning.” Doyle drew in a breath, then let it out: “You’ll have to pick me up in the morning, then. Cowley wants us in by half seven.”

Bodie winced. “Of course he does. Come on, then, sooner done.” They continued on to Bodie’s car. He could have gone home while Doyle had his debrief with Cowley, but he’d needed his own debrief. They could have easily lost today.

Doyle was quiet in the car, and Bodie didn’t press him. If Ray needed to talk, he’d do it in his own time. The bitch had betrayed him and, knowing Doyle, he’d be blaming himself for falling for her, and probably for her fall into vengeance. It didn’t make sense to Bodie, but he’d see Doyle through it.

“They were leaving, Cowley said.” Doyle broke the silence. “Buenos Aires.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand it. There was nothing holding them back—just leave, if that’s what they wanted. Why kill Maurice? Why—?” Doyle cut off the words. Bodie glanced at him, saw he was looking at his own clenched fist. “There was nothing for them to _gain_.”

“You said it yourself, Ray. He’s a sadistic nutter.” And she was worse, he thought to himself.

“Maybe she’s the one bought the tickets. Convinced herself they’d leave. Maybe he refused, and that’s…why.”

Bodie shook his head. “You can’t reason with people bent on revenge.” He understood that better than Doyle ever would.

“Cowley told me.”

Bodie’s stomach twisted, but he kept his voice calm. “Told you what?”

“About how you got Kathie to talk.”

He shrugged as casually as he could. “Cowley set the stage.” 

“And she fell for the act.”

“Lucky for you.” _Don’t ask, don’t ask_. He didn’t want to lie to Doyle, but he couldn’t tell him the truth. 

“Yeah.” Doyle’s hand rested briefly on Bodie’s thigh. “Thanks.”

Bodie nodded, relieved. They reached the restaurant and parked. Doyle climbed out of the car while Bodie unclenched his hands. It hadn’t been an act. It hadn’t been the job. She’d be dead now, if Ray had died. Did Cowley understand what he had unleashed? No matter. Doyle was safe.

*****

He’d hired Tommy McKay. His standards were exacting and inviolate. No one else would have his agents. He took them, lost and damaged as they were, and turned them to good use. 

*****

When his door buzzer sounded at 7 am, Doyle knew who it was. He closed his eyes for a moment, then pressed the intercom switch. “Yeah?”

“Run?” 

“Okay,” Doyle replied, even as his brain said ‘no’. Well. He couldn’t avoid Bodie. He suspected he had Cowley to thank for the reprieve of one night. The enquiry into Paul Coogan’s death had returned a not proven verdict. CI5 had survived. He wasn’t as certain of his own future, and Bodie was a complication.

“Richmond?” Bodie asked as Doyle settled into the car beside him.

“The cemetery.”

Bodie nodded and drove them to the cemetery. It was quiet in the early morning, which suited Doyle. Bodie set a fast pace, and Doyle concentrated on the run, didn’t let his mind wander. He knew why Bodie was pushing it: burn the emotion out with oxygen and lactic acid. He needed it. By the time they hit three miles, he knew it was working.

He’d killed Paul Coogan. It didn’t matter if his brother’s punches had made that inevitable. _It could've happened to anyone_ , Bodie had said. But he had been the one who’d hit Paul. He breathed deep, let the knowledge flow through him and out: he’d reacted and he’d killed. Accept it and move on. Learn from it. He wasn’t ready to quit CI5, or quit trying. And that was okay.

Bodie finally stopped them near the entrance. They were both breathing heavily, needing to walk off the after-effects of a fast run. It was a cool day, their breath streamed from them like smoke. Bodie’s cheeks were red, as were the tips of his ears. Doyle smiled a little.

“Better?” Bodie asked.

“Yeah. I needed that.”

Bodie put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder, gripped it hard. “It wasn’t your fault, Ray.”

“I lost control.” Simple truth.

“Okay. Next time, I’ll stop you.”

Doyle looked at him, met Bodie’s serious gaze. 

“Just like you stop me,” Bodie said quietly.

Doyle held still, and then he nodded. _I could tell him_ , flashed through his mind. But the impulse died a quick death. There was too much at risk.

*****

Together, they were strong. They kept each other in balance, under his control.

*****

Doyle lay in his sleeping bag in the hallway of venue 2, unable to sleep, unable to turn off the foreboding in his mind. ‘Bad medicine,’ Bodie had called it. He and Bodie would be standing between Parsali and an almost certain hit tomorrow. It was nothing they hadn’t done before. And yet… Maybe he should have gone along with the use of dumdums. What did it matter? Equal the odds at the least, at the most better them—

No. He hadn’t come into this mob for that. He’d needed Cowley’s lines, fearing his own had thinned to a wire he couldn’t balance on. But his mind persisted in showing him blood. Bodie’s blood. He sat up, slowed his breathing. 

“Doyle, for fuck’s sake.” They’d dimmed the light. Bodie was just a dark shape on the floor. Doyle heard the rustle, though, as he sat up as well.

“Sorry. I just—” He broke off, unable to continue. His mind was a wash of images, blurred lines. “Do you trust Cowley?”

“Yes…and no.”

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.

“I trust you,” Bodie said.

“I protect your back.” 

“It’s more than that. What’s eating at you?”

Doyle shook his head. “I feel…lost, somehow. Those lines I’d hoped for…” He stared into the darkness, glad he couldn’t see Bodie’s fact. He kept his voice low as he spoke: “I cut up that kid, Bodie, and I didn’t feel anything. Do you understand? Not…anything.” He’d said it. He’d actually said it. “It wasn’t guilt I was feeling for Paul Coogan, either. At least—not the sort I should have—”

“Ray.” Bodie was suddenly there beside him, gripping his arm, shaking him. “Stop it. Bloody hell, Doyle, you beat yourself up over—“

“I have to.”

“No. You just need to trust yourself.”

Doyle bent his head.

“Do you trust me?” Bodie asked quietly.

Doyle frowned. “Yes.”

“But why? I didn’t lie to you tonight. I joined this mob for the money. I didn’t have a better reason. I’ve killed—for money. Sometimes, for very little money. If you’re lost, Doyle, then I’m…damned. Do you remember Kathie? That ‘act’? That’s me.”

“That wasn’t for money.”

There was a pause, and then Bodie sighed. “No.”

Doyle put a hand out, found Bodie’s arm to hold. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re capable of? But I trust you to save me, stop me.”

“We’re balancing on a bloody wire together now, aren’t we?” He moved, and then Doyle felt the cool metal of Bodie’s gun against his hand. “Do you want proof? No dumdums.”

“Dammit, Bodie, I don’t want you to die.” It came out a harsh whisper.

“That’s down to skill and luck, sunshine. But if it is our day, I’d rather die clean. And you’re responsible for that. Do you think I don’t know you as well? So you don’t feel what you think you should? What the hell does it matter? You make that choice every day, Ray—which side of that line you’ll be on. Bloody hard to do in a fog, but you do it.”

And maybe that was the best he could hope for in an imperfect world. “We need to sleep.”

Bodie snorted. “Oh, brilliant, mate.” But when Bodie started to move away, Doyle took hold of him again. “What now?”

His heart was hammering, but there was a certainty growing within him. If they died tomorrow… Doyle put his hand on Bodie’s face. “I don’t want any regrets.” Bodie took hold of his wrist, held him. Doyle waited a moment, then brushed Bodie’s mouth with his thumb. He could say no, but he couldn’t evade the question. Bodie’s fingers tightened on Doyle’s wrist. The world held still. He didn’t breathe.

Bodie’s hand slid up Doyle’s arm, and desire surged as he pulled Bodie towards him. Their lips met, mouths open, and fear was burned away in passion.

*****

They were fallen but were climbing back to grace.

*****

Doyle was on the phone, but he looked round when Bodie walked into the office. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Bodie saw the pleasure beneath Doyle’s scowl, and grinned. “I’ve come to support you, of course. Frail flower that you are. I don’t know what Cowley’s thinking, having you on Night Duty. You should be home, or better yet, in hospital—“

“Shut up, you.” Doyle returned his attention to phone. “No, not you, Anson. It’s Bodie. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Look, I’ll send Turner to you when he gets back from escort duties, all right? Yeah, feel free, mate. Happy Christmas.” Doyle hung up the phone.

“What’s that about, then?” 

“Bloody Richardson didn’t show for his shift. Stomach flu, he claims. Bird flu would be my guess. Get off that ankle! And what’s in the bag?”

“Power’s going to your head, isn’t it? You sound just like Cowley.” Bodie pushed a chair into place next to Doyle’s, settled into it and put the crutches aside with some relief.

“You’re supposed to be resting that ankle, Three-seven.”

“Can’t eat Swiss Roll on Christmas Eve alone, can I?” Bodie opened the bag he’d brought.

“You’ve been snooping!”

“I’m a trained agent. What else did you expect, leaving me alone in your flat?” Bodie put the Swiss Roll on the desk. “Anyway, here’s my contribution.” He pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and waved it at Doyle.

“Looks more like Cowley’s contribution.” Doyle opened a drawer in the desk and extracted two glasses.

“Well…I did stop by his office on my way…”

“You never!”

Bodie grinned at him.

“Berk.” 

“How has it been tonight?” Bodie wanted to ask Doyle how he was feeling, but that was as close as he could get to the topic. Doyle had been back on light duties for some weeks, but this was his first full shift as Night Duty Officer. Doyle had passed all the tests to prove he had recovered from the shooting, but Bodie lived in fear that Cowley would send him out into the field with someone else, while Bodie’s bloody ankle healed. He had welcomed the Night duty for that reason, even if it had ruined their plans for Christmas Eve.

“Quiet.” Doyle poured the whisky and handed a glass to Bodie. “To returning health, eh? If you keep off that ankle.”

Bodie returned the toast and they sat in silence for a time, listening to the occasional chatter over the radio. Slowly, he felt himself relax in the warmth of the whisky and Doyle’s company.

“I’m fine, you know,” Doyle said quietly.

“I know.” Bodie drank more of the whisky, then contemplated the glass in his hand. “Back when you were in hospital, Cowley asked me if you were giving up…on the case.”

“What did you say?”

“That you’d make it. I kept telling everyone you’d make it, even Mayli.” He’d held her hand, watched her, and felt connected to Ray. But he’d been so afraid, stripped bare, without even the desire for vengeance to hide behind. Doyle wouldn’t have wanted that.

“I feel…at peace, Bodie. With myself. As if I can balance on that line now. Sure footed.”

Bodie nodded, but he felt his gut twist. Their partnership was secure, their sexual relationship sporadic but satisfying. Yet there had been an odd distance growing between them, as if Doyle was slowly leaving him behind. Inevitable, perhaps. He had been surprised at Doyle’s invitation for Christmas, then disappointed when Cowley’s orders had come down. Doyle, it seemed, had found his footing, but Bodie was floundering.

“Bodie…”

He didn’t want to hear the words, wanted to stop Doyle from speaking them. But he controlled his expression and held himself still. 

“Pass the bottle,” Doyle finally said. 

“Eh?” He followed Doyle’s gesture with his eyes. “Oh.” There was a roaring in his ears, as if adrenaline was rushing through him. He handed the Glenlivet to Doyle, but before Doyle could pour, he rushed into speech, horrifying himself: “I want it permanent, Ray. Us.” Was that his voice?” But Doyle wouldn’t—wouldn’t—

Doyle set the bottle down. “Okay. But its exclus—“ A radio call interrupted him. Doyle swore, then flipped the switch. “Control here.”

Bodie nodded, so braced for Doyle’s expected words that it took some time for his actual words to sink in. 

“Five-eight here.” It was Turner’s voice. “All done. Heading for base.”

“Negative. You’re relieving Anson.”

“You what?” Bodie and Turner said at the same time.

“Who the hell is that?” Turner asked, then continued on: “Oh, Bodie, right? Anyway, Richardson was supposed— Ah, hell, he did it again, didn’t he? Bloody, bloody—“

Doyle’s eyes were on Bodie, but he spoke into the radio: “Yeah, save it for Cowley—if you dare. Anson’s been on twelve hours.”

“Right. Acknowledged. Five-eight out. And happy fucking Christmas—“ Doyle closed the channel.

Bodie grabbed Doyle’s arm. “What the fuck did you say?“

“You’re the one who asked, sunshine.” Doyle’s eyes narrowed, his body radiated aggression.

“You’re been pulling away!”

“ _I’ve_ been pulling—? _You’re_ the one—“ Doyle broke off, stared at Bodie, who stared back at him. “We’re both—“

“Idiots, yes.” There was a bubble of joy rising within him, but he kept his face straight.

“You thought I’d—? You were just going to let me walk away, weren’t you? What happened to ‘I’ll stop you, Doyle’?”

“Yes, well…”

“Bloody office. We are going to have it out when we get home.”

Bodie grinned. “Better go to my place, then. Fewer breakables.”

“Ah, but my downstairs neighbour has moved out.”

“Is that why you invited me for Christmas?”

Doyle gave him a look, then grabbed the bottle and poured more whisky. He raised his glass. “Permanent, then,”

“Exclusive.” Bodie clicked his glass with Doyle’s.

They both drank. The clock on the wall chimed midnight. There were hours to go till they could go home. Bodie eyed the Swiss Roll.

“Yeah, might as well.” Doyle dug into his pocket and pulled out his jackknife. “Happy Christmas, you bloody maniac.” He smiled, eyes alight.

“Happy Christmas, sunshine.”

*****

They were fallen, until they found each other. They thought he didn’t know. But he would find a use for them still, in the light.

END  
December 2015


End file.
